"voyeurs" poems
Am I really that uncouth?
Have you lot yet worked out the truth.
The **** I write, it's so contrite.
I know you're dim
but I thought you might.
I've been feeding bananas to you all.
Big bananas, none are small.
All are bent, of course they are.
Enough's enough, it's gone too far.
Dear Voyeurs, to all my fans.
Some ride cycles, some drive vans.
for M&Y, yeah you're the guy.
So I bait my line and continue the lie.
But let's have it right, as well I might.
You wanted to play,
so pretended you're gay.
Now most I know aren't,
but one or two do.
Boiler repair guy with the twinkly eye.
Bent over in two, I spank with a shoe.
And all that he asks is, I call him Sue.
So I have him pegged,
for that's what he begged.
But now he knocks on my door
wanting much more.
Fuckin' Big Bent Bananas
by Kaydee.
(slurp, slurp)
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 2:55 PM UTC
ABC
Aroused body,
coquettish dancing.
****** fondling,
groping hugging.
Intense jealousy,
***** loving.
Massage naked,
oral pleasure.
Quiet romance,
swingers teasing.
Unholy ******
wet Xanadu,
voyeurs zooming.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 12:38 PM UTC
The sun bakes down heavily on a plastic micro planet in Orlando, Florida
where crowded trams drop American bushels of tourists into an alien world.
Quickly fantasy comes alive
through a corporation of disguise.
The workers mask themselves in a drapery of familiar life
-like costumes to charm little children’s hearts.
They smile wildly, carving a clear dimple line on the but of their cheeks. Walt’s Disney World
must have driven every one of America’s circuses out of business.
The flying trapeze is too elegant,
people now want to be strapped in,
buckled up and whipped around
to forcibly experience the true velocity of entertainment.
Even the participant’s attire is geared for this third world oblivion. Neon ***** packs rest like bloated kangaroo pouches
on fat sweaty old lady’s round hips, their plump fingers
holding on to leashed harnesses reined to their child’s small chest.
This is vacation,
strangers of people in massive conglomerations
with confused expressions and burnt faces.
Even the food seems wickedly unnatural,
like an artificial order of burning plastic and sour dough surprise.
Waiting is the enthusiast’s pastime as parades
of anxious voyeurs are captivated by a trance
fixation of lights and whistles.
They line up like schools of lemming,
plunging on rides,
one by one.
This is the place
Where memories are made
And dreams come true
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 12:25 PM UTC
lovers are burning.] balsamic ****** gallops from shame
into the overwild wetness of labial volcanoes, caramelized in musk. by love's labor.
laid bare, their bodies origami inhibition...[ lovers are burning. ]
and surrender is victorious !
Eros is speechless. maidens howl into cumulus goose-down, chewing carnal haikus
with swayed backs.... hips wide and wanton. masculine wands plow oyster beds, unmade.
they joust pearls... and [ lovers are burning ]
.... a damp conflagration; tongue stoked and windswept, conspires.
monotony is slain !
puritan harps are plucked and thrummed ! lewd harmonies anoint the perfect pitch
and a chorus moans. the ghost of sylvia plath, straddles Apollo; and he earns his wreath
surging besotted. [ lovers are burning ] and laurels forgotten.
lotharios charge the seldom road; the starfish door to Saturn's parlor.
pumping unbridled, that glistening, cloven moon. her riding crop insists !
his urgency must do.
satyrs sup salaciously and summon staves to dip in brine. they grin and grind
their sutras, stripping karma gears with silk scarves. ankles to a post, well spread...
cushions crush. flowers press... stamen fed.
nymphs clutch their serpent stones
to drain what nectar slips the slit. they ***** and throat.
they peck and pinch their quivers; knock their arrows to the purpose, half spent.
[ lovers are burning ]
eyes ablaze. nostrils fetch randy fumes of consent. mouths seek.
a pouty swamp with Spanish moss.... finds a matador
and a bull, a china shop.
lovers are burning the rough sketch of a lost god
and their angels are voyeurs
with unclean thoughts
for gospels.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
perfunctory actions
zombie habits
sheep normalcy
blindly following the cud chewers
lemmings fall to their deaths
slowly
genetically engineered crops
dusted with pharmaceutical poison
laced with irradiated petroleum pesticides
fed to the babies of the poor –
wealthy voyeurs eagerly tune-in
as the impoverished masses rot
for viewing pleasure
leisurely strolling across manicured lawns
those in power scoff at the growing spectacle
unaware that the cake is stale
and the masses smell blood –
hurriedly, accountants shuffle tax rates
mix those with interest credit
season it with mortgage fees
and serve it on wall street
place mats
taking stock of stock market gains
gamblers do double gainers off high rises
adding to the flesh being consumed by the under class
under classed –
underclassmen, underpaid, stretch under ware elastic
as waistlines expand with the debt ceiling
both symbolizing the slow decline of
the American dream
screaming into the sewer
fewer eyes look back as disease dulls the iris
loss of the inner shine
glowing reflection of living organisms
fading as the day
slips into the blue-black –
night falls on a nation of imbeciles
brain dead patients
broken by depression and weight-loss scams
hearts crying out for care
personal and compassionate
instead are met with sterile robotics
and sanitary “C” students dressed in white
fearful of lawsuits
and spiders
they prescribe to symptoms
without knowing insurance number 87319A23-S1
is a human being, just like them
also living in fear
of the same establishment –
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
Expect miracles every minute
Not.
Go away children if you want
Uplifting,
This is a dark adventure
Composition.
Gloomy the mood,
Gorgeous the day,
You have received my disclaimer,
Scurry away.
I scribe smoke that is uncontainable,
Smoke that suffocates, not for decoration.
You are the unrighteousness, not on the list,
Peekaboo voyeurs who read and dismiss.
Why I pen this or this.
Lost in the shuffling cards,
Luck is not inexhaustible,
Mine, bottled in the bin labelled,
The last recycling.
Dark is the blue sky,
White clouds just clothing to disguise
Morose is the vision,
Of eyes that have not seen a miracle
In decades of waiting.
Let us divorce today,
Find good cheer and company elsewhere.
From my finger these words fall freely,
No waiting, from me to you instantaneously.
What ails thee smoke scribe?
I have given and been taken, leeched and bled
and now wasted the last of my
Nine lives.
This is where I stand, edged and ledged,
Miracles are not shown to me anymore.
My quota, used, I'm not us-confused,
Cause I wrote the disclaimer,
The warnings, the risks, well understood.
Write of the good, the bad, of the
Beautiful that does not last,
Wonder if this is the poem
shall be my Epitaph?
Poetry craft, was the sword I breathed thru,
Unlike you, my motet is completed,
The music, the canon smoke, here, come, then
Gone.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 7:30 AM UTC
Argus was the only thing I could remember,
though I knew it was December.
The images before were only white noise.
Ringing in the temples.
Something new was implanted in my thoughts.
Now I have a watchful mission,
to keep my eyes up towards
the deep blue heavens.
But before me,
a series of sevens are written on the wall,
and “Fizbin” is flashing before my eyes.
I started my vexing fall
to the depths of inside my mind.
The flesh that holds our thoughts
is hardly safe from peeping voyeurs.
But I fell and I fell,
then I reached my destination.
Now my beckoning grasp for oxygen
leaves me suffocated.
And I lie still awaiting orders.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
Alorè, she-winged orb,
Aidenn's story,
As of ev'ry of all stars absorb
Moorish wars and glory.
Dulcet wings she tether,---
Mighty kinsmen grayed
By unlocking clean of her
Beauty's Bridesmaid.
In each pearling Note
As syrup entwining
Silently thro' her sacred throat---
Who here pins a-singing?
Voyeurs there take pleasure
Leering forward
*At the Seraph's ******** treasure,*
All mastered by one measure
Of Alorè's harsh sharp-sword.
Alorè's wings do they a-part
Off of the Empyrean
Out the dead the sun of Lords depart
The Dawn of Aurorean.
Ancient welfare
Upon Achaean's Night,
Where all the sea-seraphs a-delight,
No mortal can't escape the light
*Of the She-Winged ******** affair.*
Apr 21, 2011
Apr 21, 2011 at 5:38 PM UTC
They say I spilt good ink.
blood is inky blue, true,
only as long oxygen external
declines to be untroduced
strikes me as toxic ironic,
wherefore a goodly
dim sum of my
"Poetry"
comes from,
the ink in
the bottle,
what spilt,
gotta be
drops of
me sad bad/and you,
an iced tea mixed blueblood
by nobody's definition.
You see.
I
(oh how I dislike that ego vowel)
write of myself
for myself
but lock your gaze on that person
on the right or perhaps left,
in the panting crowd
of you voyeurs,
it
could be me
watching me
Writhe,
oops meant
write
If the tongue his inky pinky red
then you knowing who you
will be voyeuring,
me
ink spillin'
that oxygenized ink
that is writing the rusty
Blues
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
From the beach my group departs for a deep sea fishing excursion
Huddled in a fiberglass vessel known as the Barracuda
Captain Alberto is a burly man with dark skin and a silver tooth
Operating the motor is his young apprentice and amigo
The captain has his children’s names painted on the hull
One of them, Estrella, rings out in my mind
The boat rocks me nearly nauseous in the bobbing motions
My excitement builds as I photograph a variety of species
Fish would breach the surface, birds would swoop and dive
I even saw a whale
Distinguishable by tail
We slowed down for a better look at century-old tortugas
Circled round a mating pair, voyeurs to procreation
An engine boom and acceleration meant there was a bite
Alberto took the rod yet handed it to my party
The Mahi-Mahi swam and pulled with all its mortal strength
Its yellowish body shining and shimmering while it leapt
Our captain unsheathed an instrument for pulling the fish aboard
A candy cane shaped hook with a fine blade ending the curve
Impaled the marine dweller, pinned his body to the deck
It flopped about violently seeming to spill blood by the gallon
I found the creature’s face to be both hideous and handsome
A long bony bridge protruded from its forehead
Here, Alberto beat the beast to death with a wooden bat
It died with dignity
Fed a family
I thank the sea
For this gift
Jan 8, 2011
Jan 8, 2011 at 6:37 AM UTC
Silhouettes of perfection
mirrored in the moon's reflection
As they dance across the plain.
Sheets of grass are crisp with dew
From the condensation
caused by the concentration
of their gaze.
Blind to the life they draw
they are stopped only by thunderous applause
from the voyeurs of their strain
Horns shattering the silence of an intimate exchange.
Excited by the very motion of the living.
The color of their exsistance change.
Any misgiving and the other will find where fury preys.
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 2:35 AM UTC
All the sad faces, so quickly they appear
Those eyes they peer; like voyeurs of the night
As time approaches dusk, and light becomes dark
They disembark
From Upper York Street-
To the strongholds of the the Shore Road
Glimpsing in, people stare back
From the Spides of the north
To the elderly and beyond
Coughing and shuffling, moaning and groaning;
Oh! What a concert!
Amadeus would be a proud man indeed
As it slogs by I catch a fleeting glimpse
My face, appearing ever so different; sadder
It must be illusionary, right? Perhaps
Standing there, just thinking to myself
Will I ever see these people again?
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 5:54 PM UTC
Often the news gives me the blues
I really ought to choose
to simply refuse
I mean really, what will I lose
Schadenfreude?
no that isn't it
truth is stranger than fiction
more like a fascination with the surreal
or a blinded self-affliction with the scroungy real deal
Talking heads that speak for work
punctuate sentences with erratic head jerks
nobody normal talks that way, they ask rhetorical questions
when the answer's are known, they’re killing time
“rephrase the question, run the clock out
a commercial will spare us the embarrassment of doubt.”
Take’s a special person to face each new day
with zillions of prying eyes hanging on every word you say
the mendicant voyeurs of utter destruction’s charming new day
the slashing machete melt down of the abject speakers foray
"Oh say, can you see by the dawns early light"
What's become of your people and their obsession with fright
desensitization is paramount to achieve an abeyance of light
Frankenfoods, and "side affects" hideous monsters in the making
high resolution mayhem require victims for the taking
awaking half-dead like Dracula’s each dusk
they'll find a cure, there's another vaccine, there’s always dumb luck
maybe you won't be the sucker that makes that dreadful scene
bludgeon your mind with a another faker, a different fresh news team
fobbing your leery eyes you ponder “they can’t possibly all be the same!”
different day, different month, different year, same game
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
rows of two!-three!-four!-boys-bloc-king-the-cor-rid-or
will soon be gone
and the RHYTH-mic-tick-tock-of-my-leg-BOUN-cing-on-the-floor
will be no more
it's fresh cadavers wrapped in string
it is a joyful gospel hymn
mourning the best and worst of youth
(those shiny kids who'd first walked in
with all the grace and all the poise
of hatched arachnids missing limbs)
but what of "her" – you know her name –
that overfed, reptilian thing
who shed her hair and scratched her skin,
cursing the odds at Him upstairs, demanding He re-shape her?
some say she cried herself into extinction
– sailed away on a crimson tide –
balking at the trauma of being seen
(enforced, cursed vulnerability
in being known to man).
the rest knew better;
they were voyeurs in this
fruit-carving tutorial
on 'how to grow up':
STEP 1) consider all other alternatives
2) take the scalpel and initiative
3) before adrenaline gives way to doubt,
turn the flesh-vessel inside out in a cocoon of your own creation!
while organs may rupture and it aches like you've skinned yourself alive (good for her, setting herself free!) you'll look cuter in the class photos and has you-know-who... finally... shifted the weight?
4) breathe through the blood loss and searing pain
5) notice
you
can
breathe again.
at this point, does it matter that it aches?
May 10, 2019
May 10, 2019 at 9:50 AM UTC
Dance can't keep still;
she never could.
Music, perhaps the oldest of them all,
is the gracious host:
a voice all recognize.
Acting has a love/hate relationship
with everyone in the room
including himself.
Pottery daydreams
of ancient glory.
(Fashion hasn't got the time for that.)
Architecture and Sculpture
compare dresses.
Cooking tries to decode
the recipe for dessert.
Painting and Drawing
soak up the garden's view,
while Writing goes around
asking what everyone's up to.
Photography stops
and stares for a while.
Video voyeurs the place,
much to Love's embarrassment.
Lastly, we have Poetry:
the lovechild of all the Arts.
He is amazed by the shape of his hands
and spends his time drawing shadows
and chasing cars.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
One fearfell a passion-tree:** LOVE**.
Two fell wildly passionately embracing kissing
Hard soft sensuously profusely tender profound heavy breathing.
Then out of the sapphire brilliant blue three said "passion get a room"
Four peeked through the passion keyhole light wanting needing more...
Five felt the sunday sweat of being real close to verify passions' comfy edge.
Six *** *** *** *** *** all whispers still echo sexier passion welcome in one's ear chills.
Anticipation of seven alone together again & again heavens' passion fills anticipates more more more.
Eight big screen dreams enjoy the weather change and the voyeurs passing passion on & on sharing.
Nine ecstasy time for divine mind(s) heartbeat(s) passions' flame as one vibrant strong beat BEATS.
Ten one fell in [PASSION~INFUSED] with love undone. KNOW PASSION lives on & on & on in one.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 2:55 PM UTC
“Looking for a walking buddy”
The invitation looms as I scroll through pages of personal ads
Filled with sensitive insight, too intimate for idle voyeurs browsing.
The computer’s hypnotic glow, dousing my cheeks in pale light, coaxes me to search
To rummage through human advertisements and peruse desperate expositions
Behavior quite unlike the pastimes that others might imagine me participating in
Behavior quite unlike the nightly activities I usually partake in
Such as sleeping
Won’t I give up this useless quest for nothing in particular,
And surrender my body to the ruthless aches creeping into my muscles and joints?
I’ll wait for assurance that my grazing has meaning–
I’ll linger to assign significance to this arbitrary curiosity, even into the early morning
Eventually, I’ll resolve to the conclusion that there is somewhere an assembly of people squinting in thought, trying to justify this same bizarre inquisition
We the people, hunched over luminous monitors, “looking for something more”
We who have specific and lewd requests for the opposite ***
We nosing congregation, mysteriously drawn to the Strictly Platonic section of the personals
Should try our luck with a walking buddy
And wander away.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 3:47 AM UTC
The brightest of moons is shining over us
as we take one hundred steps
towards the home of
the philosopher
the musician
the painter
the fishes
the spider
The coldest of winds is blowing at us
as we are smoking on the balcony
while pondering over
the French man
the plastic bag
the pink book
the city lights
the voyeurs
The greatest of poems are being read by us
as we are drinking wine and juice
while carefully listening to
the repetitive Mexicans
the 5 dollar ******
the thin white duke
the cocktail songs
the local hero
The smell of an old man hits us
as we tumble around in bed
awkwardly discussing
the big soft hands
the great lips
the poetry
the desire
the lust
The sound of the alarm interrupts us
as we are finally face to face
forcing us to stop
the spooning
the laughing
the touching
the kissing
the night
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 4:48 AM UTC
in the foyer of midnight
bleeding into the lucid gallery of dreams,
a cluster of curious voyeurs
wait impatiently for the floodgates to open
they shuffle in the misty air
swirling through the room
dimly lit
like a theater in session
feasting the hungry eyes of patrons
with gore du jour
blood red drapes ascend
as my guests are seated
in the dark still of night
a staccato drum roll shatters the silence
signaling the intro to...
scene I
a recurring theme of
the one-eyed carpenter
hammering a nail into my coffin
tap...
tap...
tap...
"It won't be much longer now, sir pablo," he snaps
between gaps of rotting yellow teeth
"I'll save the best nails for the house-warming...."
what a charmer.....I muse....hugging my pillow tighter
scene II
a gang of my favorite seafood - giant king ***** -
is chasing me
down flatbush avenue in brooklyn;
they are brandishing broken bottles, bricks and machetes,
chanting, "payback is a biyaaatch.......payback is a biyaaatch!"
my peeps in the streets do nothing
to save me from the crustacean beat down;
they stop and stare and clown
as the killer ***** corner me downtown
in a cul-de-sac...
with mutha-f$#k!n friends like that....I cuss...
huffing and puffing between the sheets
scene III
the fat nurse with a cataract in her left eye
bangs on the door to my small private room
in the psych ward at byberry
"It's time for your meds pablo.....make sure you're decent now....
I'm coming in...."
I'm curled up naked like a fetus
in the far corner
teeth, hands and feet shaking
under the nervous spells
of mania and parkinson's
she jams a long needle into my back
and fills me up with anti-psychotic cocktail
my crack for the week
she leaves and locks the door
I roll on the floor
it's moving
shaking up and down
there is a quake in my head
It's a 9
the bed's coming to get me
I'm losing my mind
there's a fat lady sitting on my spine
I can't move
she has a gun
stuck between my eyes
It's loaded
a 357 magnum
she has a cataract in hers
It's cocked
mine gets bigger
she pulls the trigger....
ringgggggggg!
my alarm goes off.....it's 6:00 am
I yawn.....stretch......roll out of bed
wiping the cold from my eye...
blood red drapes descend
~ the end ~
~ P
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
Two lovebirds snuggle
in the shade of a weeping willow,
oblivious to chastising honks
of Canadian geese.
Blushing buds begin to bloom,
swollen with anticipation
as the solstice draws near
and blood boils beneath the skin.
Weathered voyeurs train watchful eyes
on the short-lived marriage of the flesh,
scoffing at the consummation of seasons,
knowing the fickle nature of the sun.
When the geese fly south, so will he.
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 8:30 PM UTC
Prologue... Voyeurs Notes: Two lovers entwined in the blue black room of the ante meridian (a.m.).
Under a cutting ******* moon
he enters you
You took him in with Pavlovian drooling eyes. He took your innocence and you shrieked in dripping compliance:::
Only that sickle overseer in the night sky bared witness
to the end of my pleasant fiction
***Halogen orb
Halcyon days***
Left only with the abscess of the apparition
that was “us”
and a
Phantom pain for the never was
Perhaps she is
somewhere
quieted by enormity of it all
Life in fast forward, a fallow future, a vertical victim of his ***** ****
Predawn...
Coldness without catharsis on a cobblestone street
**she is again spread before him,
he’s already tired of her**, and again that ******* fading crescent
watches:::
she’s wishing for a flashback, a do over,
a dream of sanity before her teardrop salinity (it could’ve been us)
But here I stand eternal
Butchered by your lunar lunacy::: alone
Against the backdrop of a pockmarked sky
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 7:02 PM UTC
There in the trenches
I've seen headless henchmen
Bending spoons
For hapless children
Cremated too soon
Demons croon
They zip
They zag
As the lower class picks their scabs
The gift of gab
Sent towards rips from packs
The rush alone could make one gag!
Have you been there?
Would you go back?
There in the trenches
I've met widows and wives
Carousing with voyeurs
Polishing pikes
Their best years behind
Spent on pyrite-
Euphoric alibis
Which eviscerate bright eyes
Will the Church draw nigh
Or watch the stranded die?
Into the trenches
Few do proudly go
Ash pollutes the snow
Falling like pyrex smoke
You might choke
When violence hits your nose
Deathblows
Thrown by the dead broke
Cross your eyes
And clog your throat
Check your pulse
As an ambulance clears the roads
Would you leave ivory thrones
To reach a people with no hope?
There in the trenches
Christ spent His time
Teaching the poor
Healing the blind
Who are we to stand aghast?
Shrugging our shoulders
Fine wine in antique glass?
When revival comes
Will it move your feet
With Gospel passion
Down the cracking streets?
Could you spare a dime
To prepare a meal
For a drooping reed
With snakebitten heals?
There in the trenches
Good News must flow
Will you remain aloof
Or be the one to boldly go?
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 10:52 AM UTC
i hung myself
from your lips
the first time
we kissed,
a transcendent
moment, shining
effervescent
as the sun.
love was the rope
i wound into a noose
on that rooftop.
an audience of stars
looked on, voyeurs
lightyears beyond.
years have lapsed since then,
but i return invariably
to those moments we spent
absorbed to the point of ecstasy
as if time were a flat circle
and i was meant to live eternally
caught between the fragments
of those seconds.
fixated by the temporary transgressions
we permit ourselves
every few months.
revolving like a planet
tethered to its star
by the insistent arms of gravity.
we're partners in crime, stealing borrowed time,
trying in vain to recreate
the first fissures
of a friendship
that fractured our lives
like a fragmentation grenade.
consistently,
i become convinced,
as time moves on
and i remain transfixed,
that maybe i was meant to love
but not be loved in return.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 8:28 AM UTC
I hardly journey there anymore.
Those ruins are far and distant,
Far and distant, and black and grey.
Relics are moon rocks in the frozen landscape.
The grand façade of the pantheon has
Crumbled into sand. I could crush it all into
Dust beneath my heel.
The mind itself is an eye, a camera obscura,
Lit not by the moon—
That old pinged marble—
Over whose surface I skim in my tiny submarine.
The lunar scene fills my vision,
Film noir.
I spy the cold garden. In the heart of it
Gleams the litter of my chicken bones.
My cowardice the wicked reminder,
Consequence of the role I performed
For the impassive audience. I underwent
A sea change in the theatre of their minds.
On some other plane
Holy voyeurs peer through spyglass,
Seeking to undress the celestial paramour.
Such delicious vacancy—
**** statue in an arena of eyes,
Gristle picked clean by vultures.
The air is ****** dry. Cold stars
Abound in the black sky.
Smeared ink the lingering impression,
Smudged thumbprint.
Nov 15, 2019
Nov 15, 2019 at 8:32 PM UTC
transitional times
*midst the ordinaries, not paying close attention,
the yet to be baked batter of chatter while driving past the familiar,
a plain pasta with butter conversation,
the human carbohydrates of our racing consuming energy,
she slips me up, by slipping in two words,
her icing on the cake phrasing
"transitional times"
pull over to the side of Menantic Road
in the early of the late afternoon, Saturday's reclining sunlight,
question her closely, CIA taping her words to my brain:
did she mean the late afternoon hours of our lives when
reflection of sun sprinkles on our bay voyages us as voyeurs
past the old longings and into the future recalling?
perhaps, the au contraire, the steady stepping,
sneaking away of the sheltering night so that the earth's
inhabitants and organs may be revived in yellow golden greens of damp grasses and the whiteness of a Sunday's fresh milk?
of course, of course, the times when the horizon calls,
saying come to me, cross the transition to the newness
of everything, in the ages and days of celebration of
unfamiliar entrances?*
No, no, she answers, bemusedly grinning,
not everything is a poem,
you thieving wordsmith, simply did I observe
that having an extra pair of sunglasses in the car for
transitional times
was a good idea!
*pulling back on the road that goes past the
Tuck Ice Cream Shoppe, the island treasure hunt Dump, the ordinary homes on the range, all along the way to the boatyard where are kept and stored and stockpiled each summer colored sunset evening along with the drinkable French pink Rose wines and gleaming yellow Sancerre and golden ales of Nantucket,
I think to myself,*
nuh uh,
*every transition,
every glorious mindless conversation,
even in the town dump,
treasures in each word, in everything, especially the
extra extra-ordinaries,
is a poem*
June 25. 2017
5:20am
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 5:42 AM UTC